


The Best, The Wisest

by lostinstarfleet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Declarations Of Love, Drug Use, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinstarfleet/pseuds/lostinstarfleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ignores his pain in order to be a best friend. He hated letting John go, but he hates John being sad even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Post-Wedding

The journey home was excruciatingly long. Even my usually warm thick woollen coat did nothing to keep out the cold spring chills and the bittersweet pang of heartbreak. Ha! Heartbreak. Who knew a man like me could feel such emotions? Until just a few months ago, I too would have found it impossible, but I was wrong. I have been so self-centred and ignorant that I have gotten many things wrong, and it hurts my pride to say it, but it’s true. Painfully, undeniably so. I turn my collar up against the wind to keep the drought off the back of my neck, but I do not bother to button my coat up.  It would have been the logical thing to do, of course, but had I not been such a damned idiot, I would not be leaving the wedding early. I might not even have had to attend a wedding at all. And because of this, it is my own fault that I am cold, and I must endure it for the sake of self discipline.

I did not make my way straight to the main road to hail a taxi cab, because I did not wish to cry in the presence of a stranger. I could feel myself becoming more and more human by the day, and this wasn’t the first time I had cried since the incident in the tube carriage. I found that tears seem to halt my deductions, and even my thought processes. _How do ordinary people do it?_ I had taken the long route through the park to collect myself before going home, and finally, _finally_ , the tears stopped flowing.

The street was busy, bustling with people. It must have been earlier than I thought it was. I pick a person at random. A man sitting on the bench to the right of me. He looks sad. Why?

Why, Sherlock?

_He cheated on his girlfriend._

If he cheated, why does he look sad?

_It was unintentional – a drunken mistake._

How do you know that?

_Finger nails._

Finger nails?

_Yes, finger nails. Newly cut, so they usually grow out – not a nail-biter then. But the nail on the thumb on his right hand is severely chewed._

What does that mean?

_He met her for coffee today to break the news. They sat outside the cafe._

Outside?

_Obviously. The coffee is obvious because there is no nail biting on his left hand, indicating that he was holding something with that hand. Could have been a phone, granted, but that would have made him look like he didn’t care. He met away from his home, so coffee is more likely. They sat outside the cafe because of the cigarette burn on his right hand – the hand that was unoccupied. He confessed, being the good, honest man that he is, and she stubbed him with her cigarette in anger. It wasn’t self inflicted because of the angle of the burn, and he is a non-smoker. No yellowing of the teeth or nails, or traces of ash anywhere on the body apart from his right hand. Also, he is asthmatic – inhaler in pocket._

How do you know he is a good, honest man?

_He chews his nails when he gets nervous, but they get long enough for him to cut them, therefore, he rarely does anything wrong and always owns up to it. He loves his girlfriend, and wasn’t about to start lying now. He knew he’d made a mistake._

He loves her?

_He’s asthmatic. He wouldn’t date a smoker unless he was truly in love._

Show off.

“Shut _up_ , John!”

The good, honest man lifted his head.

“Are you okay, mate?”

I nodded towards him and jumped in the next passing cab.

John was in my head again when I reached Baker Street. John Watson was _always_ in my head, but thankfully he _wasn’t_ always wrecking havoc between my temples. He kept me right. I hadn’t been lying, he does. He does. Sometimes it was hard to tell which John it was, but most of the time he made that blatantly clear himself, and right then it definitely wasn’t good John.

Jealous bastard.

I let myself into the flat. I turned on some lights. I peeled away my coat.

Can’t handle it, can you?

I shook my head. I took off my shoes. I put on my second-best dressing gown.

Pathetic.

“I know.” I went through into my bedroom. I removed the small box from the bedside table.

Been saving this one, have you?

“Yes. Is this what you want? Will you go away then?”

Don’t do it.

It’s hard to tell. Which one is good? Which one is bad?  

For me, Sherlock. You promised me you wouldn’t.

“YOU’RE GONE NOW! I HAVE NOTHING AND THE OTHER YOU WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE! WHAT ELSE IS THERE?” My voice echoed through the empty house, through my empty heart. Through the empty room that used to be John’s, the emptier room which could have been _ours_. If I hadn’t been such a naive arsehole.

I’d never have shared a bed with you.

“Of course you wouldn’t have. I’m not an idiot. Straight, straight, _straight._ ”

If you’d have told me...

“I didn’t know! You’d not have been interested. You’d have run a mile.”

The best and wisest man I’ve ever known...

“Yes. Sorry. Sorry about that.”

You should be. I’ve moved on. I don’t need you anymore.

“You have Mary now. You will have a baby soon. Of course you don’t.”

You almost ruined me. I almost died. I’m better off without you. We all are.

“I KNOW! I KNOW! I KNOW!” I hurled the box against the wall. It split, and the white powder dusted the floor like a smattering of snow. The box hit the floor with a clunk.

Tears were falling again, loud and hot and angry this time. Mrs Hudson wasn’t home, and she wouldn’t come home tonight, not being as intoxicated as she was, but I stifle my sobs. I stifle them with my fist. I bite down hard, and my teeth draw blood. I can taste the metallic on my lips. I haven’t slept in four days.

It was not Mrs Hudson who dragged me off the floor and out of my nightmares. For a moment, I thought it might have been John, before I remembered that he was spending the next week tasting wine in south France. Strong arms are around me, supporting my weary, tear-stained body.  I blink my eyes open and light floods painfully in, but I see the face of my rescuer.

“Greg,” I croak. His face is a picture of worry, but his lip lifts slightly at the corner. I must have gotten his name right for once. He hauled me into my chair and sat down in John’s. It didn’t seem right somehow, him sitting there.

“You’re not back on them, are you?”

He meant the drugs, I think.

“No. I promised John.”

Greg let out a sigh of relief, and then his expression hardened.

“He’s really pissed off with you, Sherlock.”

Funny. I thought I had done a fantastic job with my speech. And it was all one hundred percent true. He even hugged me, which had to mean I had done a good job.

“My speech? Not good?”

“Not the speech, Sherlock. You left. You didn’t even say bye to them. He knows something’s up. I know I promised you I wouldn’t tell him, but John isn’t an idiot. He’ll find out sooner or later.”

He already knows. You’ve ruined everything.

“SHUT UP, JOHN! LEAVE ME ALONE.”

“John isn’t here, Sherlock,” Greg said edgily. His eyes narrowed. “You’re hearing things. You’re back on the drugs.”

“I promise you I am not.”

“Well then, how long has this been going on?”

“A few weeks.”

“Sherlock!”

He was just like Mary...

“A year after the fall.”

“Holy crap Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me?”

His eyes widened with worry.

“I’m a sociopath, it’s normal.”

He wasn’t falling for it. He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned forward.

“I missed him, okay? Happy now, now I’ve said it? I can’t function without him. He’s like the air I breathe, and without him I... I suffocate.”

“Oh Sherlock...”


	2. I'm sorry, John

It takes me a while to get used to functioning without John Watson. For a long time I make two cups of tea instead of one. I try to keep my experiments out of the kitchen. I take him scrambled eggs on a Saturday morning – you won’t know about the scrambled eggs. He’s never put that in his blog. I made him them one Saturday after a fight on Friday night, and every Saturday since then that’s how I’ve woke him up. Except now when I take the eggs up, there’s no-one up there, so I’ve started a new tradition: taking John’s breakfast up to his room and eating it myself. Sometimes I fall asleep where John would lie. Saturdays are not very productive days, but then again, neither is any other day. I only take cases when Lestrade comes to me with them, and even then it is only to please him. It has been two weeks since the return of Moriarty. It has been two weeks since I last saw John.

Until now.

He knocks on the door at noon. Mrs Hudson lets him in. I don’t hear his voice but I know it is him by the way he walks up the stairs. He has the stick again.

_Look who’s here to see you._

“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath.

He sits down in his chair, bleary eyed and tired, looking nothing like the John I almost left behind.

“John, I haven’t seen you in-“

“Can I move back in, Sherlock?”

_What?_

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sherlock, please,” he says exhaustedly, looking around the room. Anywhere, in fact, but me.

“Yes, yes of course. Of course you can.”

Finally he meets my eye. “Really?”

“You’re welcome here any time you like, John. You know that. You’ll always be welcome here.”

_He’s fought with Mary. He wouldn’t be here otherwise._

Mrs Hudson comes up then, dragging John’s suitcase behind her. She looks at me and opens her mouth to speak, but no words leave her mouth. She leaves just as quickly as she came.

It takes three days for John to tell me why he is back, during which I barely see him. It is Saturday. I take him his eggs.

“John?” I say, knocking with one hand, holding the plate in the other. He doesn’t answer so I let myself in.  His room is musty and cold and he is huddled in the middle of his bed, draped in his duvet. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Sherlock,” he says in a choked voice. “Eggs?”

I look at the plate and then at him. _You were foolish to think things would go back to how they were._

I feel myself blush, but he smiles. I hold out the plate for him and he takes it. I turn to leave but he stops me.

“No, stay.”

So I wait patiently for him to eat, sitting down in the armchair by the door and crossing my legs. It doesn’t take him long to finish – it seems he hasn’t eaten in days either. When he is done he sighs contentedly and puts the plate on the bedside table.

“Erm,” he says uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to tell me, John. You don’t have to tell me why.”

“She was faking the pregnancy, Sherlock.”

John has a look of disbelief on his face as he says the words – one which accurately sums up how I feel inside. But- _I deduced wrong. How is that possible?_

“But... But you’d have _seen_ , wouldn’t you?”

He shakes his head softly. “She’s even been sleeping in a different bed.”

_So what was she planning on doing? There was never going to be a baby born._

“Sherlock, I started to get suspicious, so I confronted her about it and... Well, she admitted it, and when I asked her why, she couldn’t give me an answer. Or she _wouldn’t_ give me an answer. And I’ve been thinking about it... What if she’s working with Moriarty?”

He’s right.

_How didn’t I see this?_

I think you’ve been blinded by your feelings.

_If she’s working for Moriarty, then has she told him that John has left her?_

You’re in a mess here. He’ll ask you how you didn’t know. What will you say?

“How is it possible that you didn’t know she was faking?” John’s hands are shaking slightly. He thinks it’s my fault, that I let him believe it was real. Or that I’m lying.

“Sherlockisactuallyagirl’sname,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t even question it. He just waits for an explanation.

Oh dear, Sherlock. He’s going to run a mile _._

“I was... Jealous? I must have... Deducted wrong?”

“Sherlock Holmes, wrong?” John is still visibly angry.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done wrong. I understand if you don’t want to stay.”

I stand up and turn towards the door.

“Do _you_ want me to stay?” John’s voice is quiet. He is testing the water.

“I never wanted you to leave.” My voice is quieter than his; it is almost impossibly quiet. I’m not even sure if he heard me, but I cannot bear to turn back to him.

“Then why did you let me?”

_Only John Watson has the power to make_ you _speechless._

“You were happy.”

“I was happy with you, Sherlock! You left me! _You_ left _me_!”

I turn around and he is standing up now. He is wearing only pyjama bottoms. He is frantic. I am afraid that he might hit me. Again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You still left!” He takes a step towards me, but instead of hitting me, he hugs me.

“You’re tired, John,” I say, but I wrap my arms around his back nonetheless. He is sweaty and he needs to wash his hair, but he is warm and solid and _there_ , and I feel better than I have done since he married Mary.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Get in bed,” I demand. “I’ll stay if you want me to.”

_What the hell are you doing? Shut up._

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

I sit back down in the chair. It doesn’t take long for John to fall asleep, and he doesn’t seem to mind when I crawl in beside him. He doesn’t mention it when he wakes up in the evening and I have my arm tucked snugly in around his waist, but I can feel it, and I know he can feel that something has changed.


End file.
